A high-ranking officer in the Shroud of Heiranon.
Another man enters, ushered in by a butler, who announces him as Elder Tremmel Smith. He stands tall and straight as he surveys the room, with an angular, pale, clean-shaven face, age lines barely visible on his otherwise unblemished skin, blonde hair pulled back in a warrior’s tail, piercing bright blue eyes, visible from every corner of the room. As his eyes fall upon you, you feel the cold assessment, as though he could ascertain all of your powers and secrets just at a glance.
He wears a white robe with yellow embroidery, the Denrak of Menon clearly emblazoned across his chest.
“Your grace,” he genuflects to the duke. “Monsignor,” be bows to Linellas. He then walks to Harletta and takes her hand and places his lips to the back of it. She throws daggers from her eyes at him, and his smile is as a snake’s before it sinks its fangs into its prey, “Good evening my Lady, how good to see you such fine … health.” He fingers her brooch briefly, “Also good to see you continuing to grace these walls with your blasphemy. Your father, were he in better health, would be proud, I am sure of it.” “Your charm is only outdone by your dogmatic stupidity, Tremmel.” Tremmel lets her hand fall. There is utter silence in the room as a servant draws out a chair for him to the left of the prelate. He draws his robe under him and sits.